


Hey There Delilah

by Darkmagyk



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, College Sansa, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Musician Jon, Press and Tabloids, Silly Love Songs, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-23 16:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkmagyk/pseuds/Darkmagyk
Summary: Sansa Stark was in her Junior year of college when the band Miles High wrote an international hit song about her. But Sansa Stark had a boyfriend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was playing Youtube videos in the background while working on other stuff. This song came up, and with it a Jonsa fic emerged in my head wholecloth. 
> 
> Obviously Title and inspiration from the Plain White T's 'Hey There Delilah.'

Sansa’s boyfriend was out of town for the Summer when she heard the song for the first time. It didn’t make an impression. It was just some pop rock tune in the background of the little cafe she went to for dinner some evenings after her day as an intern at Mockingbird was over.

They kept the music lively but low, and so she mostly got the impression of catchy cords that she almost nodded along too as she was given her avocado and turkey sandwich.

The second time she heard it was two weeks later, when she went out for the desperately needed celebratory end of internship shopping trip with Mya and Randa. After the long, somewhat lonely summer she’d had, between Mr. Baelish’s comments and no boyfriend to cuddle, a little bit of retail therapy would be good for her soul.

And in less than five days, he’d be back, so it was as good a time as any to get an outfit for picking him up, for taking him out to a welcome home dinner, and something new and exciting to wear under that.

She was looking at shoes to match the silvery dress she had found for dinner, debating over heel height. Myranda was trying to sell her on the six inch pumps with the reminder that “You’ll still be shorter than him, just closer,” while Mya pointed to the three inch strappy sandals and reminded her of the joys of not having aching feet the next morning.

She wouldn’t have even noticed the song if a word hadn’t caught her ear.

 _Oh-oh-ohhhhhh, Sansa._ Crooned some overproduced voice she did not recognize.

Mya caught it too, and shot her a frown, but Randa, who kept abreast of any and all pop culture that might help her in her plots, just grinned.

“That’s _Miles High_ ,” She explained, smirking at Sansa as though she knew something she didn’t want to share. Randa loved to gossip, but she loved holding back just enough information for the maximum drama even more. “And their song, _Oh, Sansa_.” 

_Oh, Sansa_? She couldn’t help but wonder. She’d heard her name in songs before. It was popular in Northern folk music type things about the Queen through the long night. But she’d never heard it on the radio, particularly not in an upscale Vale mall.

It was too old fashioned, too northern, too rare. _She_ liked it, and its history and its lyrical sound. But it wasn’t the type of name you choose for a pop song.

The third, fourth, and fifth time she heard the song was that evening too. And there were worse titles and worst songs. Though the more she heard it the more the beat became repetitive and the guitar riff sounded a little stale and overused. On the fourth listen she actually recognizes the piano riff used in the chorus. It was from the Rhaegar Targaryen hit _Northern Girl,_ lifted nearly whole cloth.

But other than the curiosity of the name, it didn’t matter to her overly much when she got home, laden down with her bags.

Her boyfriend was in King’s Landing for his L1 internship with Uncle Jon, so she had his apartment to herself for the summer while the University of the Vale of Arryn dorms were closed, and she was doing her own at Mockingbird Public Relations internship.

Mom would not have approved of her just living here if he’d been home, though she spent three or four nights a week with him during the school year. She would have said Sansa was too young to live with a boyfriend and that both of them should be more concerned with their schoolwork.

Sansa didn’t really agree, they spent much more time studying together at the coffee table then they did most other things, but it wasn’t a fight to be had, yet. Instead, she got an empty apartment and a bed she’d been sleeping in more often than not.

She changed into one of his University of The Vale: Law School t shirts. It was large and long on her, and with no one around to impress, she could settle into comfy pajamas every night.

She considered texting him about the song with her name. It was early yet, and King’s Landing was in the same time zone as Gulltown. He was working long hour, and they’d already texted today. It was a Friday night, and if he’d been able to go home early on this Friday night, he’d surely already be in bed. His internship was wrapping up and he was putting in crazy hours in preparation for his departure. Also he was a horrible music snob who never listened to pop songs, and probably hadn’t heard it. If it was still in her head when he got back on Monday, she’d mention it then. One of his music snob rants would be nice after a summer without; it would make it feel like he was really home.

She curled up on the bed with just one blanket, for the Vale was always a struggle as far as heat went, especially in the summer. On its worst days it reminded her of high school and the oppressive heat of King’s Landing, and the oppressive everything else that marked her time there.

She ran a brush through her hair as she watched a comedy special recommended to her by Mya, who’d heard about it from her cousin. She couldn’t say she found Patchface all that appealing, but it had some fascinating facts about sea life in a morbid sort of way.

When she was done, she groaned at the clock. Perhaps she should have taken Myranda’s offer for a night out. It was still early-ish, and that lack of distraction got the better of her.

She pulled up the music video on YouTube in one window and the lyrics in one. And stared at the promotional picture of the band that was the background. Four men, a few years older than her. Each one handsomer than that last, with the one in the middle, she guessed the lead singer, the kind of thing out of her youthful fantasies.

It made her shudder, and she couldn’t help but feel like she’d seen him somewhere before.

She read the lyrics as she listened to the song, occasionally glancing back at the boys singing and playing their instruments.

It wasn’t just her name. The Sansa in the song was a northern girl, like all Sansas were. But she was a college student in Gulltown too. And she apparently had long red hair that the singer wanted to run his hands through.

It was...eerie. But it wasn’t definitive. It was a rare name, but not unheard of in the North. And The Vale wasn’t an unpopular college destination for Northerners, particularly not ones across the Bite.

She shouldn’t read too much into a few coincidences that would only be a little bit of an inconvenience when her friends or siblings decided to play to the song to annoy her.

She shut her computer and curled up into a pillow as something like a replacement for her missing boy or maybe Lady. And went to bed early on a Friday night, to clear her head and make Saturday come faster.

She would relax on Saturday. She’d be able to properly de-stress from the end of her internship after a full night’s sleep and a nice lie in.

She went to sleep of with dreams of wolves and summer snows and long, nimble fingers gliding across the ivory keys of a piano and then the ivory skin of her body.

She woke up late.

Very late given that she’d gone to bed before midnight. The sun was bright through the window and the birds had long stopped chirping.

It felt like a good day, and she was not going to waste it.

She went to the second bedroom and put her favorite yoga DVD in the old TV in there. And she yawned and sighed at the feel of her muscles stretching and relaxing.

Afterwards she poured too much of the fancy Reach bath salts her boyfriend always left for her in his bathroom and soaked for an indecent amount of time. Until the first growls of her stomach made her get up, shower off, and head out into the world.

She’d have to clean a little bit before the impending homecoming, but that could wait until tomorrow, along with deciding which shoes, three inch or six inch, looked better with her new silver dress on, and which pair looked better with it off. Then she would be ready for the hard working man come home from war.

Today was going to be her last day all about her, and though she missed him like crazy, she wasn’t going to waste it.

She got dressed, for a given value of dressed, in leggings and a Night Watch hockey t-shirt and slipped on the grey slippers she’d once practiced embroidering blue roses on.

Then she walked out into the living room-kitchen with the intent to make herself an egg sandwich and wasting the rest of the afternoon catching up on the Real Housewives of the Iron Islands or maybe Westeros’s Next Top Model.

She did not make it that far.

She never took her phone to bed, instead leaving it to charge overnight in the kitchen, where it couldn’t distract her from actual rest and relaxation and an occasionally kind of needy boyfriend. It had been a piece of advice given to her by her mother’s executive assistant Brienne, and it really was a sensible idea.

It was such a good idea that Dad was considering changing the off hours cell phone policies to make most employees of Stark Industries to do it too. And he really liked Sansa’s test case.

The whine of her phone did deserve an answer though, or at least a quick check to see who was trying to call her.

The answer was Arya, and 15 other people who’s call she missed, as long with far far too many text messages, some from people from high school that she had no desire to ever talk to again.

“I have been trying to get you all morning.” Arya said, her frustration clear in her tone, though Sansa could not think of a single reason Arya would have to be frustrated with her. “Mostly to head you off, Mom and Dad are freaking out.”

No one should be freaking out right now. Her family obviously knew about her cell phone habits, and so it wasn't unusual for her to be unreachable for much of a weekend day.

And nothing else should require any freak-outs. She shouldn’t have a live in boy until early next week. Her internship had ended on Friday, and so had the uncomfortable looks Mr. Baelish was giving her (though she also hadn’t brought that up to her parents because she wanted to finish her time, and because Mr. Baelish had been her mom’s friend.) She’d exchanged a few pleasantries with her mother yesterday and her father the day before, so they knew she was fine. She’d be back in Winterfell next weekend for a trip before the start of her third year of college, so they could examine her for themselves.

She said as much to her sister.

“Sansa…” Arya started, “Have you been on the internet today?”

“Not since last night,” She said, turning back towards her bedroom and the laptop.

Arya sighed, “Ok, I’m sending you an e-mail. Please click through all the links.”

Sansa ran back to the apartment, but when she pulled up her email she was met by a hundred unread emails, after only a night and morning.

“What the hell?” She murmured to herself.

“You got my email?” Arya asked apologetically, and Sansa shook herself at the reminder, and then clicked the first email.

There were seven links below. She recognized the first one as the _Oh, Sansa_ music video. She didn’t want to hear it again. The second one was the genius-annotated lyrics. She didn’t want to read them again. The third was a YouTube video. An interview with the band.

She had a bad feeling before she even watched it.

Arya’s email had included a timestamp about seven minutes in.

“So tell me about Oh, Sansa.” Came the perky entertainment host, “Who is Sansa?”

“Sansa,” Sighed the lead singer, his name wasn’t listed under him, it had probably been animated on screen earlier in the interview, “Sansa was Sansa Stark a girl I met at a public relations firm we talked to.”

She remembered now, however distantly. Mile High had come in to Mockingbird once, or maybe, twice.

She watched more. He didn’t have a bad voice, under all the autotune, you could tell why they’d gotten their contract, even if it had been butchered with forced perfection.

“And so you met her?”

“Yeah, exactly, I met her, and she was just, she was so beautiful, and I was really really struck by her.”

The host grinned with too many too white teeth. “And what does she think of her song?”

Sansa clicked out of the video before she could see what else it could see the answer. She tried the next link. Hoping for some sort of reprieve.

It was so much worse than that.

It was an article from click hole entertainment website that wanted to be but couldn’t hack it as buzzfeed. At the top there were two pictures, one of her at a Stark Charities Gala In the Spring with the family, that was posted to the official website, and one that had been taken when she’d gone to some indie book story with Mya two weeks ago. It had only been posted to her personal and very sparsely visited Instagram.

“Sansa, you still there?” Arya asked.

Under the picture read the headline: Meet Miles High’s Muse, Socialite Sansa Stark.

“Mother Fucker.”


	2. Chapter 2

In the Vale, the song was already in the Top 20, on the rest of the Westeros Individual Kingdom Charts it was in the middle 30s, and on the Westeros Hot 100 it was number 27. 

Her insta followings had quadrupled overnight. Her twitter notification feed was an absolute nightmare. And she had gotten seventeen different requests for interviews, most of them more then once, via twitter, instagram, and her school and old work email address. 

It was too much. After a slightly hysterical phone call with her dad, and a promise that tomorrow she’d get up early to have a conference call with some of his PR people after he’d spoken to lawyers and connections in music, she flopped onto the couch and stared at netflix until Mya came over with too much pasta, lemon ice, and booze.

“Randa could have fucking warned me.” She said, bitterly boozed out after 3 glasses of wine.

“She loves this kind of thing.” Mya reminds her. “She always wants to make some waves.”

“Yeah, but the wave is that some dude I don’t know is in love with me, and everyone on the planet trying to talk to me about it.” 

Mya rubbered her back sympathetically. “I mean, it's not so bad,” she offered, “Its a cute guy, who’s rich and famous.” 

“He’s not ugly,” Sansa admitted, the the truth was he was very handsome by almost anyone’s approximation. “But like, come one, he’s some rising pop star, that’s barely famous, and it's the first mainstream hit, they aren’t making that much money.”

“You are such a snob,” Mya laughed. “And Myranda did research and said he did have some family money from an Uncle or Aunt or something.”

“Whatever you say, Miss Baratheon,” Sansa snarked back, “But I apparently need to remind you that I have a boyfriend. Who is also very cute, and also rich.” 

She glanced at a picture on the living room bookcase. It was them at the beginning of the Summer when she’d gone with him to King’s Landing to help him set up his temporary life there. 

“And he could be the most handsome man in the world, but I have a guy, I chose him already, a guy who doesn’t cause people to spam my twitter feed.” 

“Most of them are just jealous.” Mya offered. 

“That is no reason to call me a bitch or suggest I kill myself.” Sansa said, pouring herself another glass, “I’m suppose to call Winterfell tomorrow morning, don’t let me drink anymore.” She added to Mya. 

She woke up with to empty bottles, a headache, and Mya’s feet in her face. 

“Do you feel any better?” Her friend yawned. 

“Nope, I feel much much much worse.” She said, checking her phone and groaning at the time. “Hopefully my Dad and his overpaid team of lawyers will have some answers.” 

“Your boyfriend wants to join that overpaid team of lawyers,” Mya replied, and got a pillow in the face for her trouble. 

She had to shower the night of bingeing off of her, but she didn’t bother to get dressed in anything fancy, she couldn’t handle it, not today. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” He father sighed, as soon as she opened Skype. He was the first person in the call. 

“Do I look that bad?” She asked. 

“No, but you look exhausted and sad.” He said. “I know you’re alone this summer, but only until tomorrow, and maybe you have friends who…”

“Mya came over last night.” She told him. He loved Mya’s dad dearly from their own college years in the Vale, and after the disaster that was Joffrey and the later divorce and paternity suit, Dad wanted her to be friends with Baratheons. 

“Good, Good. Have you hydrated, taken advil?”

“Are you giving me hangover cures?” She asked. 

“Vale drinking age is 19, but I expect you to be responsible.” Dad said, a smile in his grey eyes.

Any other father daughter chats had to be forestalled because they were joined by Dad’s head of security, Jory, Mr. Manderly, the family's personal lawyer, and Dacey, who worked for the PR department. 

“We are filing what we can.” Mr. Manderly assured her. “But I don’t think we can do much about the song. Sansa isn’t an unknown northern name. But we are working on people who are talking about you, and what we are saying.” 

Dacey nodded, she was the kind of no nonsense northern woman Sansa had once been bored by, but now she was something like Sansa’s idol. Sansa was modeling her public relations career path after her.

“I talked to Jojen,” She was saying, “one of our interns, and Mr. Stark said he’d pay him a special stipend to monitor your social media for the next several weeks, until things calm down.” 

It was the kind of thing celebrities did. And Sansa’s only brush with such things in the past was pictures in the society pages after a Stark party or event. 

The article describing her as a socialite seemed so out of place. Not when you compared her to people like Margaery Tyrell or Arianne Martell or Daenerys Targaryen. 

But the idea of not having to see her notifications. “That sounds wonderful, thank you.” 

“And I was thinking maybe you could give an actual interview, set the record straight, tell your side of the story. I understand you don’t know anyone in the band?”

“No,” She said, a little too emphatically. “I met them in passing.” 

Dacey nods and writes something down off screen. “I know some people who might want to talk to you, I’ll call around this afternoon, see if we can schedule something over the next day or so. Get ahead of some things.” 

She feels like someone released her nonexistent sex tape. Not like some stranger made her name a headline. All this discussion and worry. She was exhausted all ready. 

And then she had to promise Jory that she wouldn’t leave the apartment without being careful, and only just barely talked her dad out of sending a few guards down to shadow her. No one had indicated they had any idea where she lived. So she wouldn’t overreact like that just yet. And the semester started in two weeks, she didn’t want to ruin that. 

When it was done, the afternoon was well upon her and she slept off the rest of her hangover but still went to bed too early after more grumpy calls to her family. 

She woke up with a text from Dacey about a interview. 

“It will be a phone Interview,” Dacey promised, “And we can set it up so we are Skyping at the same time, so I’ll be around if you need me. But you are a smart woman, and this is the kind of thing you are studying. I think you’ll do fine.” 

They went down what she should talk about, generalities about her studies and her internship. Her chances to meet various talented artists. That she was confused by the song and by the reaction after such a brief meeting. That she had a boyfriend she loved and wished Miles High well. Nothing mean, nothing controversial. Project a mask of bemusement and sweetness. Get it over and done with. 

Sansa showered and straightened her hair. She put on one of her work suits and did her makeup. It was not like her interviewer would see her, but she needed to feel confident and in control. She wanted to project an image, and that image needed to be that she has got this. And that meant no slouching in her pjs. 

Dacey asked if she’s ok when they start their pre-interview chat, but she accepted Sansa’s eager affirmative. 

She was the cool, confident Sansa Stark. Heiress, honor roll student, and she-wolf. She was not afraid of some interview. 

The introduction was a light, pleasant sort of thing and Sansa relaxed into her chair. Notes from the Table was just a fluffy entertainment news site, and Taena Merryweather was one of their staff writers, not some mad gossip vlogger. 

“Tell me a little about yourself.” And it was easy to say she’s a rising Junior studying public relations. 

“You’re not just a Stark, your one of _the_ Starks, I believe, Eddard Stark, CEO of Stark Industries is your father?”

“Yes,” She agreed, “That’s true.”

“The Starks are so associated with the North, how did you find yourself in the Vale?”

Sansa let out a giggle to hide the discomfort at the question. “Well, of course we Starks are Northern to the very bone, and I love the North and Wintertown and our home their dearly, But it isn’t like we never leave. My mom is from the Riverlands originally, and my dad went to school here too. I thought it would be fun to go to the same place he went and get a little change of scenery. Plus they have a really great public relations program.” She didn’t mention that after the shit show that was her high school experience in King’s Landing she was desperate to leave, but also a little too embarrassed to go back North with her tail between her legs. 

“And public relations is how you got involved with this in the first place, correct?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, “I met the members of Miles High during my public relations internship this summer.” 

“That was at Mockingbird Public Relations, yes?”

“Yes,” She agreed, “It was a really great opportunity I had over this past Summer, and I’m so thankful for it. I got to meet a bunch of really talented and interesting people. I got to work with a lot of great industry professionals and it was wonderful.”

“Including Miles High?”

“Yes, I met them when they came into meetings a couple of times.” Sansa said. She barely remembered them, it had been at the beginning of the summer. She might not have remembered it at all if Mr. Baelish hadn’t made a point to bring her attention to them both times. He’d wanted to to go join them for lunch, but something had come up both times.

“Do you know why they wanted to use Mockingbird’s services?” She asked

Sansa did, of course, but she didn’t need Dacey’s sharp look to keep her from saying anything untoward about bastards. 

“No, but Mr. Baelish, the president of the company, is a fantastic resource to know in the entertainment industry, in the Vale or beyond.” Because he was so good at dealing with the unpleasantness she didn’t say. It would not do to hurt her letters of recommendation. 

“When did you first hear the song?”

“Only this past week,” She said, “Because it's getting a lot of airplay in the Vale.”

“So no one contacted you about it?”

“No.” 

“The song is so lovingly intimate, I’m surprised no one called you afterwards at the very least. I’m sure none of the boys have trouble getting girls, but you seem special.” It _was_ very intimate, with lines about running a hand through her red hair and pale skin. It hadn’t made her feel special though.

“Well, I don’t think anyone in the band has my number,” She tried to laugh it off, but Dacey was glaring at the question. “And I do have a boyfriend, so I would have declined any invitations.” 

“Really?” Taena asked with such glee that it twisted Sansa insides in strange ways. “And what does he think of the song?”

“We haven’t talked about it yet,” Sansa said, “He’s a law student. And he’s absolutely brilliant. This past week he was finishing up his first summer internship and preparing to come back home. It's a very competitive job in King’s Landing, so he needed to really be concentrating on that. When he gets home I’m sure will talk about it.” She wanted to lay back against his chest on the couch and not worry about what people were saying about her in comment sections. He was safe and comfortable. 

“You haven’t talked to your boyfriend since you heard the song?” Asked Taena. 

“I only found out the song was about me on Saturday,” Sansa said. “He’s moving, I have not spoken to him in the last two days. Do you like people whining at you when you are trying to move?” 

“So, given that you haven’t talked to your boyfriend since the song came out. If you got called up tomorrow and where invited out on a date with anyone from Miles High?” The smirk in the interviewers voice was hard to miss. 

“I’d say no, thank you. Like I said I have a boyfriend who has been away all summer, I want to spend time with him.” She replied with conviction. “One of the great things about having a boyfriend is I don’t need to look for another one.” 

She wished there were more questions about him, so Sansa could gush some more. But he apparently paled in comparison to Miles High to Not!Buzzfeed and their readers. 

“And what if your boyfriend broke up with you tonight.” 

“Excuse me?” Sansa froze. 

“Your boyfriend comes home from his trip or better yet, he calls you and says he’s met someone and dumps you. Then does that change your dating plans.”

The scene formed before Sansa’s eyes, and she might have started to cry if she hadn’t seen such red. 

“How fucking dare you,” Sansa screamed before she could think better off it. “You don’t get to back me in a corner, hoping bad things happen to me, so I’ll agree to date some creep I barely met twice a month ago.” 

She hung up the phone without making any kind of send off, and Dacey sighed. 

“Well, she’s not getting any good Northern interviews for a while.” She offered. 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said, “I shouldn’t have…”

“No, it's...not exactly fine, but she had it coming. And we’ll deal with whatever she might write. I might even drop a not so nice line to her editor about her terrible questioning skills. Attacking someone personally like that.” Dacey shook her head. “We’ll sign off now. You should rest. I’ll talk to you later, or maybe on Thursday, when you get back North.”

“Yeah, ok,” Sansa agreed, she yawned though she’d gotten plenty of sleep the night before. “Dad’s so freaked out about everything he’s sending the jet.” Such trappings didn’t excite her like they normally did. But her family sounded wonderful.

Once they said good buy, Sansa changed out of her clothes and felt like she shed a strange skin. She loved dressing up, and had never really felt like such a fraud as she did tonight. 

She washed her face, and left her hair up in the scrunchies she had used to tie it away from her wet skin. She left her designer suit on the bedroom floor, and put on a borrowed t-shirt. 

She ate the rest of Mya’s gifted lemon ice, and stared in sadness at the empty wine bottles. 

She wondered how much it would cost her to get something stronger delivered. And how much more efficient it would be at its work if she didn’t eat dinner. 

She was googling booze deliveries on her phone when she got a text message. 

_Hey Babe, hear you are crazy busy. I’ll see myself back to the apartment, and I’ll even bring food. ETA 20 minutes._

She’d had plans, She’d had a sexy outfit. She was going to make reservations and make it a special night to remember to make up for all those missed ones. 

It was not suppose to come at the end of a weekend that was so draining she completely forgot he was coming home. 

Twenty minutes wasn’t enough time to really make the splash she wanted, but she could have done a decent half job.

But the idea of having to put on another mask was to much for today. 

She forwent the booze in her only compromise, ate a spoonful of lemon ice because it wouldn’t going to spoil her dinner, and turned on Real Housewives of the Iron Island with a slightly manic glint in her eyes. 

Let him come. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was reconsidering this fic this weekend, and I realized that this is really all it needed to get to a satisfying ending.
> 
> So have the final chapter.

There was no silver dress. No six inch nor three inch heels. No hair curled just so, no blue rose tiara. There was just Sansa Stark in yoga pants and a Luwin Academy t-shirt, hair in a messy, ratty bun, and face unmade up. 

It was not that big a deal, she has spent plenty of nights curled up on the couch looking just like this. But it was not everyday that he comes home after eight weeks away. 

And yet, when he walked into the apartment, in jeans and a Stark Industries shirt, laden with Braavosi food, his eye lit up when he caught sight of her. 

“Hey,” He said, such a simple statement after weeks and weeks, and then “Honey, I’m home.” He liked to say sometimes he was so struck by her beauty he would forget to be sarcastic. 

“Hey, “ she said back, and he dumped the food on the coffee before leaning in to kiss her long and deep and a little desperate, his hands coming up to ghost the sides of her face, before he pulled back and grinned. 

He was everything beautiful about the dark northern look, short brown hair framing a long face, and the prettiest grey eyes in existence. As a child she’d had dreams of gold boys, like Joffrey Lannister or Miles High’s Harry fucking Hardyng. But none of them compared to her Jon.

“I got you lemon salmon and that rosemary rice thing you like,” He explained as he shuffled through the bag and she stared at his much missed ass. “And for dessert,” he spun around dramatically, “Rose water lemon cake.” 

She forced a little smile, “Thank you, love.” 

“What’s wrong?” He said, instantly, taking her in, in full. “Something’s wrong.” He kept his shrewd eyes on her while he got the take out container and plastic fork from the bag and handed it to her. Then he curled up next to her, so so close, not bothering to get his own stew from the bag. 

“Have you heard the radio, recently?” She asked after several long minutes of looking down at her rice and stabbing the salmon with her fork. 

“No,” he said, “Stations in King’s Landing are even worse than the ones in the Vale. Why?” His eyes narrowed, “Baelish do something creepy? You know Uncle Ned hates him right, no matter what Aunt Cat says.”

“No, just, their is a song right now, it’s getting popular, called Oh, Sansa.” 

He frowned. “Is Myranda giving you shit about it?” And her heart doesn’t do flip flops that he pays attention and understands her friend group’s dynamics so well, but it’s a neat thing. 

“No, well yes, but not because of the name, because it’s actually about me.”

Jon froze. His eyes wide and even a little fearful. “Who wrote a song about you?”

“Miles High, they’re a Vale band getting some buzz. The lead singer was apparently struck by me.”

“When did you meet him?” 

“He came in to work a few times to see Mr. Baelish.”

Jon nodded biting his lip just like Arya and his mom both do, it was so endearing that she leaned forward for another kiss, and only stopped form making it longer and dirtier because of her favorite food in the way. 

When she finally pulled back, he looked more relaxed.

“Jon, you do not get to be worried about my feelings for some wanna be pretty boy pop star.”

“I happen to know that Stark girls sometimes get carried away with musicians.” He said with a shrug.

She glared at him and then at the place where a dining table should be. Instead, it featured a guitar on a stand, a violin, and a baby grand piano. 

“Sure,” Sansa said, “ the Targaryen ones. Though without some Stark in them they are just unreliable.” She kisses his nose and then indicated the bag of food so he would eat. “Anyway, He was at Mockingbird because he had two bastard kids in less than a year with two different women, both of whom he then ditched. The label was worried about how it would affect their imagine.”

“Never made a difference for Rhaegar.”

“It is different, for one he is about a million times more talented than Harry Hardyng and his crew could ever HOPE to be. Also, Rhaegar only had the one kid with the one other woman.” She said.

Jon blinked, “Oh god, Does Mom know? And Uncle Ned?”

“Oh yes,” Sansa nodded, “I got an earful from Aunt Lyanna last night. She’s absolutely beside herself.”

“Of course she is, southern assholes writing songs about pretty Stark girls is kind of her least favorite thing ever,” Jon said with the recollection of thousands of rants in his youth. Sansa had heard a fair few. “But at least she can offer her support.” 

“She offered to fly down. She actually looked up the record label the band is signed too, if it was Rhaegar’s she was going to call and make him break the contract or something.” 

Jon laughed, probably at the idea of his mother yelling at his father over music on the phone. 

“But enough about me…” She tried.

“There is never enough about you,” He countered, though he did finally get his food out of take out bag. He smiled over his pork, “Has Uncle Ned sent Jory down to murder this band yet?”

“No, but he’s sending the jet to take us home on Thursday.”

Jon frowned, “It's that bad?”

“It might be,” Sansa shrugged, “I’ve gotten a lot of attention online. Dad called a war council on Saturday with Jory and Dacey and Mr. Manderly.” 

“How are you?” Jon asked, “Really and truly?”

“A little overwhelmed. A lot confused. Do you want to hear to song?”

Jon shrugged, but she pulled it up anyway, casting it from her phone to the TV the living room. 

“Dude is your type.” Jon said with a casual smirk when it started. She paused the video and swatted his arm. “What, he is, all blonde hair, blue eyed southern charm. I hate to break it to you, but you were not silent about your youthful fantasies. And you Stark girls are all the same.”

The same meaning Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar, Arya and Edric, and her long string of crushes of men with blonde hair as a kid.

“You want me to bring up your fancies.”

“I’m two for two on hot Northern redheads,” He smiled. And she laughed despite herself. 

“Well, like my mother, I have matured in my tastes as I’ve gotten older.” Sansa told him, “Now shut up and watch or I’m going to make you explain how Val fits into your little story.” 

It wasn’t that long of a song, but she could see Jon’s displeasure growing throughout the first verse, and when the chorus hit, his eyebrows shot up. He clearly recognized the first song his father had ever written about his mother. It was perhaps the most loathed song in all of the Stark household, and also the most musically interesting part of this song. 

By the time the bridge started his mouth was set into a frown.

“That,” He demanded when it was over, “was the song he wrote about you?” 

“Yep, it's getting a lot of airplay, too?” 

“But it's so bad,” Jon said, seemingly genuinely confused as he often was when faced with bad, popular music. “The bridge is melodically almost identical to the rest of the song. The guitar riff is so repetitive and basic. The only interesting musical idea is the sample, because Northern Girl is so iconic and using it for a song about a quintessential northern name, and a perfect northern women. And even that’s not original or clever, and because it's so much repetition of that too.” 

It was comforting, his rant. 

“And the lyrics. This boy managed to write a song about you that wasn’t about you at all. He says your pretty and he wants to invade your personal space because… it will inspire more insipid songwriting? Like, nothing about your brilliance or your wit or your cleverness or your goals or your dreams. Like, what’s the point of a song about Sansa Stark if it isn’t about Sansa Stark?” His gaze was intense on her as he said it. “You are amazing, a song could never ever capture that, but he didn’t even try. Why did he not even try?”

Sansa smiled just a little. 

“And the production. Who overproduced this non-since, the drums aren’t loud enough, the base is to much. And the vocals. The guys pitchy but he’s not the worst, but the autotune takes what little character he has and scrubs in clean.”

He huffed and sat back on the couch, “I cannot believe this is what passes for music these days.”

“Not every father sent certified music masters to teach their son to compose and sing and play instruments at their fancy boarding school.” She reminded him with a kiss. 

“I know that, and lots of them are still perfectly good.” He countered. “But that was so sophomoric. And it was about you. How does someone write such a terrible song about you, and then decided they just have to share it with the world.” He reached into his pocket and fished out his phone. 

“What are you doing” She asked, when he started fiddling. 

“I’m going to call, Dad.” He said. 

“Now?”

“He wanted me to call at some point when I got back from my internship.” 

“Again, now?”

“He might not have heard the song, but I need him to take what’s his name and the high boys…”

“Harry Hardyng and Miles High.”

“Yeah, whatever, he needs to sue them for copyright infringement for unauthorized sampling.” Jon explained, “He always wants to do dumb shit for me, this time I’ll ask.”

It was a sweet thought. 

“Jon, no,” she said, removing his phone from his hand. “You can’t do that.” 

“Of course I can.”

“No, you can’t, because you worry a lot about the moral implications of every expanding copyright laws and the effect it might have on art.” 

He sagged against the couch, but smiled despite himself. “I can’t believe you listen to my insane music rants and my insane legal rants.” 

“I love you, and I love your brain.” She reminded him. 

“But what are we going to do about this?” He asked.

“We’re going to go home, and hide inside the walls of Winterfell,” She said, “but also I gave an interview to the Little Bird this afternoon, I recorded it if you want to hear me totally lose my cool.” 

“I literally always want to hear that.” He said, but then listened intently when she played it. 

“I’m not breaking up with you tonight.” He said, seriously, when it was over.

“I know.” 

“How could I, when you valiantly defended my honor against the vipers.” 

“Is that what you think?”

“It's what I know,” he said, “ A she-wolf ready to defend her pack. You only get that righteously angry about someone you love, and so you must really love me.”

“I really must,” She agreed. “You and your stupid face.” And she kissed him, long and slow and deep. She remembered what his mouth felt like on hers. He was completely clean shaven, though normally he preferred just a hint of stubble, and as she felt up his arms and shoulders they felt lighter, like he’d lost weight due to the stress of the job. She’d have to do a full examination later, and by the way he was feeling up under his old high school t-shirt that she was wearing, he planned the same thing. 

“You know,” She gasped out, as he moved down to her neck, “I had a whole thing plan. Dresses, shoes, new lingerie. I was going to make it a night to remember.” 

“This is pretty damn memorable.” Jon murmured. 

“Yes,” Sansa agreed as his long white fingers slid up her abdomen, “you should play me a song.”

He pulled back, “What?”

“You should play me a song. I’ve had that stupid thing going through my head all weekend. It is stressful in like twelve different ways. I want my very talented boyfriend to play me some very good music.” 

He kissed her again, but didn’t even look that annoyed when he stood up, using his grip on her hand to bring her with him. 

She sat her next to him on the piano bench, and as she watched the fingers that had just been crawling up her body crawled over the keys, she shivered in pleasure. 

Jon had never written her a song. It was the most expected thing in the world. Rhaegar had written a dozen about Lyanna over the years, and at least a few about Jon too, and it was a call out and attention neither ever wanted. The practice was derided in the Stark family, and Jon was as dutiful a Stark as ever there was one. 

But he was so talented. He didn’t seem to want to sing, but he played, starting with the ballad of the War for the Dawn, which had an entire verse about Queen Sansa. Then he shifted into Queen in the North. And then Blue Roses. She didn’t know the fourth one he played, something soft and melodic, with a rhythm perfect for slow dancing too. Just her kind of song. When he started to hum out the lyrics under his breath, things about strength and grace under pressure she didn’t recognize them either.

“What’s this?”

He stopped abruptly, curving his shoulders in and his hanging head down closer to his chest to examine his fingers at the keys in a way he probably hasn’t had to do since he was a very little boy, and then started playing Weirwood Throne, his mouth now clenched in a firm like to stop from singing. 

She elbowed his arm, “No, really, what was that song?”

He shrugged, “Just a song I wrote, it's nothing.” 

“It didn’t sound like nothing, it sounded beautiful.” She knew Jon could write songs, but not that he’d do it recently. He never shared them. “I like it, you should play it again.”

“Sansa,” He nearly whined. 

“Come on,” She giggled, poking him, just a bit, “why not?” 

He looked so sad and dejected when he finally admitted, “its about you.” Like it was the worst sin he’d ever committed. 

“You wrote a song about me?”

He nodded morosely, “I’m sorry.” He told her. 

“You don’t need to be sorry.” She whispered, leaning into his shoulder. He’s stopped playing anything now, and she already missed it. 

“Of course I do. God, I was never going to tell you, only assholes write songs about women they supposedly love. And especially right now with all the problems those idiots are causing you.” He sighs, “I just don’t want to do this to you.”

“Oh, Jon,” She said, before giving him a kiss on the cheek, “You are not your father, I am mostly not Aunt Lyanna, and you are definitely not Harry Hardyng.”

“But…”

“You aren’t married with two kids, and I’m not the eighteen year old you groupie knocked up.” Sansa reminded him. “And you certainly didn’t meet briefly all of twice. So you are allowed to write songs about me.”

He looked so hopeful, “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind if you share them.” 

And so he did. He played it from memory and sang along. 

And when it was done looked at her with such reverence that she could not think of a more genuine sign of love in the entire world. 

“I bet that could become a bigger hit song then Harry’s.” She said.

“You think so?” He sounded skeptical. 

“I really really do.” And she really really did. 

“Then maybe I do have a favor to ask of Dad after all.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [tumblr](http://darkmagyk.tumblr.com/).


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